Entanglements with the Enemy 7
by SheriAnn
Summary: A small lull . . . before the proverbial storm.


_Disclaimer: This is an amateur work meant in no way to infringe upon the rights of Amblin Entertainment or the Sci-Fi Channel. Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, seaQuest, etc., are all the sole property of Amblin Entertainment and its cohorts in Hollywood. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this author's own deranged mind . . ._

_Author's Note: This is a first season story . . . with a few variations Some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. He's also a bit younger (one year) than the show's Lucas Wolenczak. You'll also find Section Seven mentioned a little earlier than it was originally introduced in the series (Season 2). Finally, because I wanted a new "bad guy" (there weren't a lot of organized bad-guys in Season 1), I've invented a whole new enemy: the Non-Allied Powers. Some dates may also appear suspiciously outside canon._

_Please send comments, critiques, polemics, sonnets, et cetera . . .!_

_Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn_   
  
  
  


Entanglements with the Enemy

Part  Seven

  
  
  
  
  


Lucas's eyes fluttered open. He looked around himself.

He was in what looked like the brig.  And it wasn't pretty, either: no windows, the standard brig toilet in the corner of the room, several cots lined up on the floor. Panels and remnants of some white material--Lucas wondered if it was plaster--were scattered across the floor. Trash was piled in a corner beside the toilet. It was a large brig, but doubtless a brig: the bars spanning the main entrance were symbolic of the brig's main function, keeping people locked away from the rest of society. Except for the overall messiness of the place, it even looked exactly like the brig on the _seaQuest_. Of course, had the _seaQuest_'s brig looked this messy, Chief Crocker would have hunted down the culprit and had his or her head on a pike within minutes.

Hmm. This all brought up an interesting question: what on earth was he doing in a brig?

Tiredly considering the question, Lucas yawned, stretching his muscles . . . until he suddenly found himself staring at his left arm. His eyebrows shot up several inches. What was this? A sling restrained his arm's movement; plaster encased it from his fingertips to his forearm. He struggled to remember what had happened; for some reason, his mind simply kept chasing itself in circles. The last thing he remembered, he'd been swimming laps with Darwin, trying to work off some much-accumulated stress. He certainly hadn't been anywhere near a brig, and he definitely hadn't had a broken arm.

And where was he, anyway?

Lucas's perplexed expression rapidly changed to horror as the events of the past few days rushed into his mind. He shuddered. The _Ulysses_. He'd been on the ship with Captain Bridger and friends when, out of nowhere, they'd all been hijacked by the Non-Allied Powers. Lucas, though, had managed to escape. His shudder became almost violent as he considered who had done this and where they were going. The NAP agents had set sail aboard the _Ulysses_, heading straight for Dominia.

Dominia. Hell.

Dominia was about the last place he wanted to be going. Ruled by a dictator who liked to consider himself intelligent and wise, Dominia was at the mercy of a madman's wiles, if anyone asked Lucas's opinion. Sergei Nartovich loved power; he loved wealth. He also hoarded weapons and armies. In fact, he had one of the largest armies on the planet, second only to the UEO. This was alarming, considering the amount of virtually undiluted power this man enjoyed. No one opposed him, for no one could afford to complain if they wished to live. Politics was obviously a simple matter in Dominia.  There was one side only to any problem: Nartovich's side. Everyone else simply kept their mouths shut.

Dominia. They were going to Dominia. This wasn't cool.

Sighing, Lucas shook his head.  He didn't suppose there was much he could do about their pridicament.  It sucked, but it was the situation they'd been dealt.

Still sighing, Lucas sat up slowly and blinked as he tried to recall exactly how, in the middle of a hostile takeover, he had managed to break his arm. Had he tried to resist? Been hit from behind and knocked down too hard? Simply fell?  His brow furrowed as he fought to remember the shadowy events of the past few hours--or was it days?  He didn't even know the timeframe he was dealing with. Puzzled, Lucas tried to remember anything from that day:  the day the hijackers had come aboard.  He usually remembered just about any detail, but now . . . everything was fuzzy.  It was almost as if part of his brain had been wiped clean.

Why, _why_ was everything so damnably confusing? Why was his mind so hazy?

And then Lucas inhaled sharply, staring straight ahead with shock. Wow . . . now he remembered. He'd actually done it: he'd made a vortex, right here, in the middle of a ship held by an enemy power! He remembered waiting in one of the many passages lining the ship; he'd been waiting for the enemy to leave so he could climb out and put together his vortex.  After what had seemed ages, he'd seen a chance to get to work . . . he'd snuck out, watching his opponents, who were only feet away . . . and he'd done it.  He'd actually initiated a devastating vortex.  His beloved renegade vortex had blown holes right into the ship. He didn't know exactly how many holes he'd created, for he'd been stuck crawling around in the ship's access tubes, but he did know one thing: the vortex had made a mess of what had once been a beautiful ship. Of course, he'd practically blown himself up in the process, but, right now, that was beside the point. Though he knew he was lucky to be alive, Lucas could only focus on one fact:  he'd succeeded in creating his vortex.  At last, he'd done it!

The riddle of where he was now solved, Lucas again looked at his surroundings. Sprawled haphazardly around the room were his friends: Kristin, Ben, Katie, Miguel, and Tim. They looked to be sound asleep. Slouching in a hard chair beside him, snoring lightly, was a much-exhausted appearing Captain Bridger. Somewhat guiltily, Lucas studied the dark shadows lining the captain's face. He knew he was responsible for placing at least a few of those shadows there, and probably a whole new streak of gray in his hair, too. Though he hadn't exactly invited the enemy aboard, Lucas had blatantly defied the captain's orders, engaged in some rather dangerous activities, and nearly gotten killed. Bridger would probably send the bill for any ulcers incurred from this episode straight to Lucas's parents . . . not that Lucas would actually mind on that count.

For a moment, listening to the soft breathing of his sleeping friends, Lucas pondered trying to go back to sleep. He then shook his head at the idea. Not a chance. It wasn't as if he could actually _sleep_ with NAP agents lurking outside, planning God alone knew what. Not to mention his arm; right now, it was throbbing in tune to his heartbeat.

Hmm. Maybe he could bug Ben for awhile. He glanced behind him, then at Ben; with a slightly mischievous glimmer in his eyes, Lucas grabbed his pillow and threw it at the sleeping lieutenant. Ben jumped in his sleep, snorting (and almost sounding like a pig when he did it) as he mumbled something unintelligible. He grabbed Lucas's pillow and stuck it under his head, rolling over and almost instantly starting up a snoring session that reminded Lucas of a chainsaw stuck smack in the middle of a tree. Lucas rolled his eyes. "Ben!" He whispered with a worried glance at Bridger. Thankfully, the captain was still snoring. "Ben!"

Ben again mumbled. This time Lucas thought he heard, "No . . . leave her alone, you bastards," before Ben stuck Lucas's pillow over his head. He continued to mumble whatever, though now Lucas couldn't understand a word the lieutenant said.  The pillow acted as a pretty good muffler.

Carefully, Lucas swung to his feet and wobbled over to Ben's side. For a moment, the world span around his eyes, moving at a crazy tilt. Finally reaching his destination, though, Lucas plopped down beside his friend with a relieved sigh, then shook Ben's shoulders. He removed the pillow from Ben's face and stared down at the sleeping lieutenant. "Ben! Come on, wake up!"

Snort . . . cough. Lucas restrained a grin, knowing now was neither the time nor the place. But he had to admit--Ben was the noisiest sleeper he'd met. He wondered how Katie had managed to live with this. On second thought, though, perhaps she _hadn't._ They had divorced pretty fast . . .

"What? What'd I do now?" Ben mumbled, eyes flickering; one eye slowly popped open. The eye stared at Lucas for a good five seconds, its owner obviously nonplussed, before, suddenly, both eyes flew completely open and the lieutenant sat up.

Lucas watched, amused, as Ben ran a hand across his eyes and over his hair. Ben's hair was sticking straight up in just about every direction. He reminded Lucas of a porcupine.

"Lucas! What are you doing up? How are ya' feeling?" Ben asked, jumbling the questions together. He ran another hand through his hair, then looked at Lucas with concern. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah. Just a little shaky. My arm's hurting a bit, too." Lucas paused, glancing again at his sleeping companions, then looking back at Ben. He bit his lower lip anxiously. "What's been happening, Ben? Do you know if my vortex did its job? Did it manage to stop the ship?"

Ben stared at this. He blinked. "Well, yeah . . . probably better than you can imagine." Ben yawned, running a hand behind his neck and stretching. "We even felt it here: it blew several of the panes right off the wall. The ship's dead in the water. It seems to be leaking, too. I'm not sure how badly. Unfortunately, our hijackers haven't exactly felt like keeping us posted on anything."

Lucas frowned. Absently plucking at the hem of his shirt, he considered their situation: hijackers, leaking ship, no sight of _seaQuest_ yet . . . at least, not that they'd been told of. However, their captors could simply be keeping the news from them. Still, none of it was good.  He again looked at Ben. "I reached Ford before they caught me. He knows what's happened."

Ben's eyes widened; he glanced over at the captain. "Did you tell Bridger yet?"

"Nah." Lucas shook his head. Seeing Ben's eyebrows lift, he ducked his head as he explained with a guilty look askance, "I thought he looked like he needed sleep more than information."

"Probably right. He was still up when I finally went to sleep, and I was the last to finally turn in." Ben paused, glancing at the captain before he added, "He's been sitting with you since they brought you in. You had him worried there for awhile." Another pause, then Ben corrected in a tight voice, "Actually, you had us all worried. If those bastards ever give you Diphorline-Pyroxine again, I'll skin them alive."

Lucas's eyes widened. Diphorline-Pyroxine explained a lot.  Though he knew he wasn't supposed to have heard of it before, Lucas knew what Diphorline-Pyroxine was. A few months ago, when he was bored and looking for something to do, he'd hacked into the "unhackable": the heavily guarded Section Seven computer network. Once he'd finally managed to break the anti-hacker codes, Lucas had stared, aghast, at the information displayed before him. The information he'd found had completely reshaped his view of UEO's internal security division. He'd always suspected Section Seven performed some rather illicit activities, but this . . . this had been shocking.

Just where had his hacking landed him?  Well, somehow, he'd managed to plant himself deep within the files of the Section Seven "Research and Development" Department--and what a "Research and Development" department it had been. Everything a covert agent was likely to need was there: invisibility shields; undetectable poisons; weapons of every variety. Among these interesting "developments" had been Diphorline-Pyroxine, a drug supposedly invented for "experimental purposes only." Mentally, he snorted at the idea. Section Seven never developed anything for simply "experimental" uses . . . at least, not that _he_ knew of.  He could easily bet they'd use the stuff as soon as they produced it, and most likely for their "questioning sessions" (AKA "interrogations").

Obviously, they'd completed the drug's formula.  He was living proof of it.  But somehow it had wound up in NAP hands. An interesting connection . . . one that Lucas thought worth following if they'd not been stuck on the _Ulysses_ in really hot water.

The Diphorline-Pyroxine did explain one thing, though: how he'd been caught in the first place. Lucas vaguely remembered crawling through the ship's entrails, hoping to keep out of the enemy's sights, when he'd suddenly been unable to move. It'd been a terrifying experience; he hoped never to experience anything like it again. Unable to move, his sight dissolving into nothingness, his hearing warped and strange . . . just thinking of it caused gooseflesh to crawl along Lucas's skin.  But the drug also explained why his head hurt so terribly. From what the Section Seven reports had said, the drug's effects were something like a really bad hangover. The way his head was hurting now, Lucas figured a heavy drinking bout just wasn't worth the price of a really bad hangover. He'd be sure to remember that when he at last reached legal drinking age.

Providing they ever got off this stupid boat, of course.

With a sigh, Lucas refocused his mind on the situation: one sinking ship, a bunch of bad guys, and no computers in sight.

Certainly not an ideal situation.

In fact, it down-right sucked.

Lucas suddenly felt a shake at his arm. He looked up, surprised. Ben was looking at him with concern. "Hey, kid, you okay? Lucas . . . ?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Just thinkin'."

At this, Ben sighed, nodding his head. He tapped his fingers on the side of his bed, a dark frown carved across his face. "Yeah, I know the feeling. I've been thinking the whole time we've been in here." With a loud _hurumph_, Ben irritably shook his head. "Not that we had much choice _but_ to sit around thinking. Being stuck in here, nothing we can do, waiting for someone to come rescue us . . ."

He left the thought unfinished, shrugging. Lucas continued to pick at his shirt. They sat in depressed silence for a moment.

Lucas finally asked, "What now?"

Ben looked at his friend, then at their sleeping companions. After a moment, he shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don't know _if_ there is anything we can do." Again, he glanced in Bridger's direction, then added, "I'm hoping the captain will have an idea or two on this when he wakes up. Other than that, I guess we just hope for a lucky break."

Well, they could be lucky, Lucas supposed:  if all their luck managed to change drastically . . . and if it changed well before any further catastrophes struck.

But Lucas wasn't holding his breath. That sounded suspiciously like divine intervention to him. 


End file.
